The Fallen: A Derek Stillwater Thriller (3 page)

“You don’t like that song?”

She glared at him. She flapped her hands, encompassing the guards, the resort, the whole world. “No, this! All this!”

“Hey, it’s no big deal,” he said. “Just some weekend warriors trying to keep the world safe for democracy.”

“I didn’t like them,” she said, voice soft.

It took him a moment to figure who “them” were. “Why?”

She didn’t answer right away. They were closing in on the next checkpoint, which was manned by the Secret Service. Finally she said, “I don’t know. Something. His accent, maybe.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Accent? What accent?”

“Something out of the country.”

“He looked Hispanic to me. You have more of an accent than he did.”

“I have no accent, Michael!”

Derek laughed. “Right. No accent at all, querido.”

“I don’t!”

He laughed more, feeling relieved. “Okay, you don’t have an accent. What was this guy’s accent? He looked Hispanic to me.”

“I don’t know. Not Mex. Just— something.”

A part of Derek’s mind took it seriously. Another part just figured Maria was feeling jittery. Hell, he felt jittery.

They pulled up to the Secret Service checkpoint in front of Cheyenne Hall and were asked to step out of the truck. They did, handing over their identification and security paperwork.

The lead Secret Service agent at this checkpoint, Larry Ferrigno, studied Derek’s paperwork. “Michael Gabriel,” he said, reading from the ID. “What do you do here?”

“Maintenance,” Derek said. Ten feet away another agent questioned Maria.

“What part of the complex?”

Derek gestured toward the three-building complex of Cheyenne Hall, the International Center, and Colorado Springs Hall. “Typically here. I mean, I go where I’m needed, but mostly I work here. That’s where I’m assigned today.”

“Right. I remember seeing your name on the list. Let me double-check.” Ferrigno glanced at the screen of a tablet computer and adjusted
the cursor. He nodded, tapping a stylus against the drop-down menus, accessing the Secret Service database.

The agent with the dog inspected his truck. Another agent used the mirror to look underneath it for bombs.

“Is there a problem?” Derek wondered how thorough the Service had dug into his background. It was a problem with these National Special Security Events. The Cheyenne Resort had over 1,600 employees. In the case of the G8 Summit, you had to coordinate with about twenty countries’ security services and deal with the fact that each country’s leader brought along thirty or forty staff members. A background check wasn’t going to dredge up every single quirk in each person’s history.

Ferrigno shook his head and handed Derek back his credentials. “Nope. Have a good day, sir. Please park in Lot C. You know where that is?”

Derek nodded.

Relieved to have made it through this, he climbed back in the truck, but Maria waved him off. “I’m right here, Mike. I’ll just walk in. It’s shorter.”

“No problem. Have a good one.”

“You, too. And thanks for the ride.”

She strutted away and Derek noted with amusement that all the Secret Service agents watched her walk away in her short skirt and heels. Yeah, well, when you’ve got it, flaunt it, he thought. Maria was worth watching. He jammed the old truck into gear and headed over to Lot C, which was out of the way and inconvenient to Cheyenne Hall.

He parked in the shade of a huge hackberry tree and took a deep breath before climbing out of the truck. As Michael Gabriel, he was a charming loner, the one few people got to know. His story was that he grew up in Florida, but liked the mountains. He was handy, had a year or so of junior college. He spent the last fifteen or twenty years working maintenance at hotels. He was nobody unusual. Just a guy doing his job.

Derek Stillwater, on the other hand, had a Ph.D., and retired with the rank of colonel from Army Special Forces where he specialized in biological and chemical warfare and counterterrorism. Derek Stillwater was “officially” dead, having died in a domestic terror incident eight months earlier. His job title was “troubleshooter” for the Department of Homeland Security. Whenever there was a potential biological or chemical
terrorism event in the U.S., he went along with the FBI to “evaluate, coordinate, and investigate.”

He had been undercover for eight months in preparation for a possible attack on the G8 by a terrorist calling himself The Fallen Angel.

Derek knew The Fallen Angel well. They had once been partners. They had once been friends. And he had reason to believe they were going to meet again.

Washington D.C.

President Langston’s administrative assistant ushered Secretary James Johnston into the Oval Office. Johnston was no stranger to the Oval Office, and walked briskly over to stand squarely at the feet of the American eagle on the presidential seal. Although he was no longer a general or even in the military, he couldn’t quite suppress the urge to stand at attention and salute. He squared his shoulders and waited.

Behind the president were three multipaned windows overlooking the south lawn. This morning a team of maintenance people were mowing and trimming the emerald green grass. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

Langston had aged. His sandy brown hair was shot through with gray and his rugged face looked craggy and worn. When he ran for office he had been boyish, vigorous, lean, and handsome. Johnston thought the presidency should come with a warning label: “The Surgeon General warns that the presidency will prematurely age you and has a high risk of early death.”

The job always wore on the holders of the office, but the death of most of his cabinet and his wife and children in a terrorist attack added decades to President Langston’s appearance. And his mind had changed. He was not the man who had been elected; this new man was angry, distracted, and tired. Wearing a navy blue three-piece suit, President Langston sat behind his desk, peering at paperwork through bifocals. “Hello, Jim. Have a seat. Robert’s coming.”

“Yes, sir.”

President Langston waved him to sit down, ignoring him. Johnston and Langston were not on the best of terms, and never had been. Johnston’s
political leanings were just a bit too liberal for the conservative administration. But his tenure on the Joint Chiefs, his expertise on terrorism, and the need for the Republican Party to have a military man in the cabinet to make up for Langston’s lack of military experience made him a frontrunner for secretary of homeland security.

President Langston finished underlining something in the document he was reading, and set it aside as Secretary Robert Mandalevo was ushered in by the president’s chief of staff, Lauren McCullough. President Langston sat back in his chair and gestured for Mandalevo, the director of national intelligence, to take a seat. Mandalevo was a tall, elegant man with a shaved scalp, long, oval face, and grim eyes. Johnston didn’t think he had ever seen Mandalevo smile. Mandalevo looked like a scalpel with his lean, straight build and black tailored suit. “Good morning, Mr. President,” he said, and settled into a chair next to Johnston. Mandalevo tipped his head. “Good morning, Jim.”

Chief of Staff Lauren McCullough swept a blunt hand over her steel gray hair. “Wheels up in one hour, Mr. President.”

Langston waved a hand. “I know, I know.”

McCullough wore a gray suit and rose blouse and low heeled shoes. Pearl earrings and a matching necklace and a slim Piaget watch were her only jewelry. She was a serious, grouchy autocrat with the personality of a badger and the protective instincts of a momma bear. She knew her business and didn’t let anybody forget it.

Johnston made it a point to stay on McCullough’s good side though, because she never failed to remember who was loyal and competent, and who wasn’t. She never failed to repay political grudges or favors. Her mind was like a political calculator. Johnston liked her. Unlike most Beltway politicians, she would never stab you in the back— she’d look you right in the eyes as she slipped the stiletto between your ribs.

“Yes. Well, gentlemen,” she said, “I want your intelligence briefing for summit security. Robert? Why don’t you start.”

With a nod, Secretary Mandalevo ran through a summary of international intelligence recently gathered surrounding the G8 Summit. He finished with, “There has been some chatter regarding the inclusion of Crown Prince Talal and Minister Shitzak Tichon, but nothing directly threatening.”

President Langston scowled. “Damned Palestinians pissed off they weren’t invited?”

Always diplomatic, Mandalevo said, “Nobody believes the Palestinian government should be considered one of the economically strongest in the world, Mr. President.” It was hard to argue that point, and nobody commented on how deftly Mandalevo sidestepped the actual question.

“So there aren’t any major terrorist threats to the summit?” asked McCullough.

Mandalevo frowned. “With an event of this magnitude, there will always be threats. We have no specific threats, however. Security, as you know, is very high for this event.”

McCullough glanced at Johnston. “Jim?”

“There are the usual protestors. They’re set up in Colorado Springs, and we’ve got National Guard, Secret Service, and FBI handling things. They’re being kept a long way from The Cheyenne. Nobody wants a repeat of Seattle.”

“What about that bit of chatter you picked up, when was it, October? About Coffee? There hasn’t been any follow-up.”

Johnston frowned at the question. “As you know,” he said, “we’ve been keeping an eye on hate groups and militias. The NSA was monitoring phone and e-mail of The Reverend Lt. Colonel Jeremy Sebastian, who ran a group called the Colorado American Rights Delegation. They’re a militia, but very militant and they’re on our domestic terrorism watch lists. Anyway, NSA picked up part of a phone conservation that we suspect was made to Sebastian by Richard Coffee.”

President Langston perked up. “When was this?”

“The call itself was late August, sir.”

“What happened? Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

Johnston tried to keep his expression neutral. The president had been briefed on this. President Langston was following the hunt for Richard Coffee closely. Was this his way of jamming him into a corner, shifting control to Mandalevo? Christ, he hated the political games in the White House.

“It was a snippet, sir. Part of a telephone conversation. The voice we believe to be Coffee said something like, ‘This is your guardian angel. Remember me?’ Sebastian said, ‘Fallen?’ Then starts praising him for almost
killing you, sir, but Coffee cuts him off. He says, ‘Don’t say anything else,’ then says ‘they’re coming back.’”

Langston’s dark eyes nearly glittered with anger. “They being The Fallen Angels?”

“We believe so, sir. Then Sebastian says, ‘Is this about that Cheyenne Hills thing?’ and Coffee hangs up.”

“So,” said McCullough, “you believe—” she paused, thinking for a moment. “How sure are you that the caller was Richard Coffee?”

“The reference to ‘Fallen’ and ‘guardian angels’ suggests it strongly. The bureau voice printed it, and compared it to the sole tape we have of Coffee’s voice, which, as you know, is very poor quality. They did not give a one hundred percent confirmation.”

Secretary Mandalevo interrupted, his voice smooth. “It is, as a matter of fact, well below fifty percent, isn’t it, James?”

Johnston slowly nodded. “They estimate it at a twenty-two percent certainty.”

Everyone thought about that for a moment. Then President Langston said, “What about this Sebastian? Did you pick him up and question him?”

Johnston hesitated. “Sir, there was a time lag between receiving the recording intercept and analyzing it. The call was made in late August. We didn’t receive the report from NSA until early October. As soon as it was analyzed, we sent agents to pick up Sebastian. However, sir, Jeremy Sebastian was murdered two days after the telephone call.”

Chief of Staff McCullough was watching the president closely, eyes narrowed, expression troubled. “Sir, we’ve been through this—”

President Langston leaned forward, elbows on his desk, face flushing with anger. “Why is this the first I’ve heard of this?”

Johnston glanced at McCullough. She said, “Mr. President, it was in one of your briefings. Everything involving Richard Coffee and The Fallen Angels is automatically put at the top of your security briefing.”

“I don’t remember this. I damn well would have remembered something this relevant, a real sighting of the bastard who killed my wife and children.” President Langston scowled at McCullough, then glared at Johnston.

“Sir,” Johnston said, “it didn’t go anywhere. All we have is a very
vague, unsubstantiated connection between Richard Coffee and Colorado Springs and the G8 Summit. It’s nothing more than a rumor. We don’t know for a fact that—”

“I understand. But that madman murdered my family! What are you doing about this?”

“Sir, the Secret Service is running security for the summit. They have been fully advised of the possibility that Richard Coffee may try to do something there.”

President Langston turned his glare on Robert Mandalevo. “Robert? What do you have on The Fallen Angels?”

Mandalevo tapped his long, thin fingers on the arm of his chair for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “As you know, Mr. President, the members of The Fallen Angels who were arrested have been confined to Guantanamo Bay. They were all recruited from the highest levels of the world’s intelligence agencies. They are very professional. And for reasons we don’t completely understand, they have proven to be very resistant to our interrogations. None of them have spoken, sir. None.”

“What about Coffee? Did you track him?”

“We found evidence, sir,” said Mondalevo, “that he slipped across the border into Mexico. In fact, he sent a postcard to Dr. Derek Stillwater from Mexico City. From there, we suspect he continued to move south into Central America. It was rumored that he was in Colombia, but it was never corroborated. That’s all we know until that phone intercept.”

“Where was the phone call from?” demanded McCullough. Johnston thought the president’s erratic behavior was rattling her and she was trying to make up for it by stepping in and taking control of the meeting.